


the only abomination is in our minds.

by dindjarins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e04 Abomination, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s02e04 Abomination, a little ooc, drowning mentioned, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21687709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dindjarins/pseuds/dindjarins
Summary: “You know,” Stiles sounds too tired; exhausted. When he speaks, his words come out like airy wisps, as if the words are a struggle to form on his tongue and push out. “I didn’t even know how to swim.”“What?” Derek’s jaw tightened,⠀OR: Derek visits Stiles after the pool incident and a few revelations are made
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 479





	the only abomination is in our minds.

Derek doesn’t realize what he was doing. He doesn't realize the way his hands turned the steering wheel, or when he parked the car in front of a familiar house, or— _especially_ —when he was walking across the lawn and _scaling_ the house like he’s done so in the past. He doesn’t realize any of it until he’s hanging from the ledge and peeking into the room.

It’s disorganized like always, books are thrown around carelessly and clothes hang from every piece of furniture. It’s pure chaos, but Derek supposes it’s a chaos that makes sense to Stiles. Sure, the teen can’t walk across the room without tripping over something he should probably pick up, but he knows exactly where everything is.

Derek finds his fingers worming underneath the window like it's second nature, pulling it up while placing less weight on the left side because he knows it creaks loudly if that side makes it higher than the right—it’s an odd tidbit he’s not sure whether or not to find weird that he knows.

He slinks in, landing perfectly on both feet without making any noise before he's walking further into the room. _Pride and Prejudice_ is lying on the navy sheets of the unmade bed, sticky notes in various colors pop out of it and Derek can’t help the small grin that forms; concealed by the shadows of the room. He’s sure the colors mean something, he’s sure Stiles loves writing down notes and pointing out things in books without actually writing in it—he respects the books too much to do so.

The smile falls as soon as Derek realizes it was there.

He also takes notice that Stiles isn’t even home—no one is. There’s no noise, no heartbeat; there's nothing. Just the scent of the two men who live here. Derek can’t help the trepidation that drips into his bloodstream at the thought that maybe something happened to Stiles—maybe the Kanima got to him, maybe he crashed his car.

He’s not exactly sure why he suddenly cares for Stiles. He never has. If anything, he didn’t care if the boy ended up in a ditch on the side of the road, but now that mere thought does hurt him, he doesn’t want Stiles dead—doesn’t want his body to be found in a ditch, or at all unless it’s _alive_ and _unharmed_ ; perfectly safe.

The worry fades quickly in a smoke of relief when he hears the familiar hum and rumble of that stupid blue jeep Derek’s sure is ready to fall apart at any second now. He finds his feet taking him to the corner of the room—where the darkness hides him better—without noticing his legs are taking him there unconsciously because it’s something he’s use to doing—hiding in the dark, ready to scare Stiles because it’s funny.

The front door opens, it creaks slowly, and then shuts loudly. It makes Derek wince because his ears are listening a little too closely. Stiles’s footsteps are slow, _sluggish_. Derek can tell from the way it takes Stiles three minutes to climb up the stairs that the teen is tired, his breathing is ragged and erratic.

When he enters the room, he doesn’t even bother to turn the lights on. Derek can smell the malodorous stench of anxiety, exhaustion and panic permeating off the human. It makes him want to move forward and make sure he’s okay, but he stays right where he is because comforting someone isn't exactly something he can do well, especially if the person is Stiles.

Stiles looks like he’s in pain, he struggles to pull off the jacket and the shirt he’s wearing, and then his pants. He almost falls over one too many times before successfully removing them. Derek would’ve found it comical had Stiles’ scrunched up face not been there; it’s like he was holding back his need to finally break down and full out _sob_.

Derek doesn’t want to just sit here and watch the boy strip, but he doesn’t say anything since Stiles is suddenly pulling clothes out of the drawers, his entire body trembling as he leaves the room and comes back later fully changed in warmer clothes.

He falls face first on the bed, all his limbs spread out like a star before he turns his back towards Derek and curls in on himself. He looks small like this, completely defenseless and Derek just wants to wrap his own warm body around him and let him know everything was going to be okay (he hates feeling that, because now he knows he considers _Stiles_ , of all people, pack. But it’s not such a bad thing, Stiles is smart and loyal, a good member to have in a pack; annoying or not. But there's another part that says he shouldn't expand his back further than his three betas because having a bigger pack means having more people to lose).

“Are you going to sit there all night and watch me sleep?” His voice is soft, weak, and he doesn’t even turn his body around to face Derek, but Stiles speaking to him causes his lips to purse in silence, partly due to the confusion he feels since Stiles _knew_ he'd been there the second he walked into the room. His jaw unhinges just a little to open his mouth, but nothing comes out, and thankfully, he doesn't have to say anything right away seeing as Stiles finally does turn around, his fingers coiling around the pillow as if it were an anchor holding him down (he noticed the way Stiles’ body shakes, and not in that too-much-energy-flowing-inside-of-me sort of way, it’s more of a I-want-to-cry-but-refuse-to; he's probably holding back because Derek is there)

“What are you doing here?” He asks, there’s no snark or bite in his words, just fatigue-laced syllables and a flat-falling tone.

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch, what _is_ he doing here? He doesn’t even know. Part of him wasn’t paying attention when he got in the car and drove here because he distinctly remembered wanting to go home, but he supposes that other part of him wanted to see Stiles.

“I— “ He pauses, and swallows whatever word vomit was going to fall out. Despite the venom having worn off, it still feels like it’s there. On his tongue, in his chest— _squeezing his heart_ at the sight of Stiles' doe-like eyes looking up at him.

“I don’t know.” He admits. He wants to say he just had this inexpressible urge to see Stiles, see if he was alright, to just be _near_ him, but he doesn’t say that because it’s such an _un-Derek_ thing to say ( _totally_ Stiles' words, not his).

Stiles sighs deeply, it’s not full of annoyance. He sits up slowly while trying to make his grimace subtle, and turns a little to face Derek, though his eyes seem permanently stuck to his lap. He’s sure the boy’s legs and arms hurt, he had to hold Derek (who is no where _near_ lightweight) up for almost three hours, and he also noticed the way he laid on the ground for too long after they got out of the pool with his chest heaving. Like if he was suddenly the one afflicted with the Kanima’s venom and was rendered paralyzed.

Stiles’ trembling grows, sprouting in a more violent way. His breathes are even more irregular and unstable, his chest sinks in but doesn’t rise with normal breathing.

 _Panic attack_.

Derek doesn’t know what to do, he’s had his fair share but Laura always found a way to guide him through using her status as an Alpha, something that’s useless to Derek now because Stiles is _human_ and it might just terrify him even more.

“Stiles.” Derek calls his name, he walks over and sinks into the bed beside him, watching the way the boy grasps at his shirt, trying to pry open his own chest. Derek can admit he’s seen Stiles have one before, when he followed him home after the boy had bared witness to the mechanic’s murder and been paralyzed himself. He followed him in hopes of seeing whether or not the Kanima would return to cut off a loose end, but he ended up becoming a spectator to Stiles tumbling into an alleyway in the rain, sliding down against a wall and calming himself down from a terrible panic attack— _all alone_.

Derek wished he could’ve gone over that day to help, but he was frozen, _shocked_ , remembering that Stiles was entirely human, and that he wasn’t use to watching people die in front of him—except for his mother.

Now though, Derek had the power and the (kind of, sort of) mental stability to help him.

“Stiles.” He grips the boy’s wrists and tugs them closer to his own chest, splaying a hand over his own heart. “ _Breathe_.” It takes almost ten minutes for Stiles, wrapped in the seeping warmth of Derek, to control his breathing, matching it to the steady heartbeat he can feel underneath his hands—that are too cold in Derek's hot hand.

“I didn’t think you had a heart.” The joke is enough that it makes Derek snort, but he doesn’t do or say more than that as Stiles pulls his hand away from the beating organ he can feel underneath his fingertips.

He's practically in Derek's lap, pressed tightly against the man's chest. He can smell the expensive cologne and faux leather. His body is still shaking, it won’t _stop_ shaking, it’s like he’s swallowed entire earthquakes and the effects might just take an entire _lifetime_ to wear off.

“I— “ Derek pauses once again, he doesn’t want to interrupt the blissful silence of Stiles not rambling (though he’ll admit to himself, he finds his inability to stay quiet endearing now), and the pleasantness of finally feeling calm for a second, but he feels he needs to say this. “I think I know why I came here?” It comes out as more of a question.

Stiles finally pulls away first, he shuffles until his back is pressed against the headboard and there’s enough space between the two to miss the warmth of each other—well, the warmth _Derek_ gives off because while he’s a furnace, Stiles is a _freezer_.

“Did you need me to look something up for you?” No bitterness laces Stiles’ words, but Derek doesn’t want him to think he came here for that.

He shakes his head, his own gaze refusing to move further than Stiles’ lap because he’s embarrassed to admit his next words. “I came to thank you and make sure— " _God_ , Laura would laugh until she couldn’t breathe if she were to see Derek right now, a flushed face and unsteady voice, it’s like he was a teenager again, right before high school, before he grew a large ego and a confidence that soared through the roof and into the sky— _one that faded when he held his first love and turned his eyes a warm-soaking gold to a bone-rattling, freezing blue._

He clears his throat. “To make sure you were okay.”

There’s a beat of silence, Derek can’t help but notice the way Stiles’ heartbeat jumped at the words.

“What?” He breathes out softly in disbelief, his head’s titled and his lips are wet as he runs his tongue over it with uncertainty.

“You’re worried, about me?” The skepticism leaks off of his lips as he gives an incredulous chuckle. “Derek— “ He pauses, swallowing a wad of spit that had gathered in his throat. “You don’t trust _anyone_ , you don’t care about anyone if they aren’t in your pack. Especially _me_.”

_God that sounds pathetic, Stilinski. Pull yourself together._

Derek shakes his head and he's already mentally scolding himself when he remembers every time he slammed Stiles into the wall, every time he threatened him in some form or another with painful bodily harm. That was all _before_ the revelation that he _does_ care for Stiles was made obvious to him, that he _does_ consider him pack, that he _does **trust**_ him.

(It's kind of odd, because _trust_ is not something he can give out. He trusted Kate Argent and it blew up in his face in a way so sinister and scarring that now he can’t trust anyone, not even the betas he has—the ones _he_ created)

“I do trust you.” He exhales the words deeply, wanting to take them back because saying them out loud makes the words true and he’s scared and Derek may be in his twenties but he’s still feels like a _kid_ all alone in the world, trying to navigate the horrors of it with no family to guide him and enough trauma to last him three lifetimes. Yet he doesn’t want to take them back because he wants it to be true— _it is_ —because that means he’s growing and finally able to _breathe_ without it being painful and now he can trust people and become better and maybe even happier when he finally starts to believe he deserves joy.

“I _do_ trust you.” He says more clearly and deeper and louder. The words are real. He made them real.

Derek glances up at Stiles. His disbelief has fallen, his expression is a little neutral but Derek can tell from the way the tips of his lips are curled downward and that specific furrow of his brows that Stiles is shocked and speechless. Not for long though, because this is _Stiles_ and he always has something to say.

“But... why?”

Derek can feel the smile form, it’s small, not enough to change any other parts of his face (no wrinkles or dimples) but it’s enough that Stiles’ eyes fall down to glance at it, flabbergasted that _Derek Hale_ is _almost smiling_ , and not in a threatening way.

“You helped me when I had a bullet in my arm, and you were ready to amputate it even though you pass out at the tiniest bit of blood.“ He thinks back to their proximity that day. His fingers curled tightly around Stiles’ ugly plaid button-up, the way the fear and worry radiated off of him before Derek turned and puked up black blood. “You let me hide out in your house even though I was a wanted fugitive and you didn’t even trust me back then - you probably don’t now.” He has the permanent memory of Stiles sprawled out over the bed, soft snores leaving his lips as he absentmindedly scratched his tummy. “And you held me up in a pool for three hours straight when you could’ve left me to drown. You came back for me when you let go."

Stiles heartbeat rises, his cheeks flush a faint pink and Derek knows it’s because he too is realizing all the things he’s done for him, all the reasons Derek trusts him with his life—as he’s done so before. Perhaps, maybe, realizing he too can trust Derek.

A silence filters through the room, Stiles picks at his nails and flares his nostrils in thought.

“You know,” Stiles sounds too tired; exhausted. When he speaks, his words come out like airy wisps, as if the words are a struggle to form on his tongue and push out. “I didn’t even know how to swim.”

“ _What_?” Derek’s jaw tightened, but then he calms down because Stiles _forced_ his body to learn how to swim in such little amount of time, all to save Derek. He’s forever indebted (not that Stiles needs to know that because he’ll probably use it every chance he gets).

“I’ve always hated the water. My mom tried to teach me but every time— ” Stiles’ lips twitch, the junction between his two eyebrows scrunch, as if though he’s revealing a secret he’s never told anyone before, and perhaps he is. He exhales softly, in a strained sort of way that lets Derek know he’s been trying to hold it back. “My body would just freeze up and I couldn’t stay above the surface for more than three seconds.”

Derek sighs and lets out a low chuckle—ignoring the way Stiles looks at him in awe because if Derek Hale doesn’t _almost smile_ , then he most definitely doesn’t _chuckle_. But he does. He does at the sight of Stiles Stilinski (who can run his mouth 90 miles an hour, who has a sarcastic response to everything, who’s always the smartest person in the room) who tries so hard to hide every emotion and apprehension underneath a cracking mask of goofiness and rambling and worrying about others, is laying himself bare in front of Derek, it’s so raw it actually kind of scares him, because he knows in the near future, he’ll lay himself bare to Stiles too.

“Add that to the list then. _Forced_ yourself to swim in order to save me from drowning.”

When he looks up at him, his cold translucent eyes clashing with Stiles’ sunlight brown ones, he knows he’s not going anywhere tonight, even if Stiles wants to push him out the window, he’ll still linger underneath.

“Can I— ?” His question trails off, though it seems Stiles already knows what he was going to say because he starts pulling the sheets back and adjusting the pillows.

“Please.” Stiles nods, and Derek slips off his leather jacket and most of his clothes before sliding underneath the warm covers that smell like Stiles, like safety, almost like home—not _quite_ there yet.

There’s several inches of space between them, but their warmth radiates far enough to reach one another and that’s comforting enough.

And when they both wake—almost like they’re in sync—gasping for air as if though they’re still splashing in the six foot deep pool with a murderous Kanima prowling around the edge, neither one say anything, they just huddle closer and seek more comfort in the expanse of each other's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Copyrights List :)  
> \- Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis  
> \- Pride and Prejudice (c) Jane Austen


End file.
